


Kingdom Come

by Lloegyn



Series: Engineered Chaos [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Tragedy, Canon Compliant, Engineers, Established Relationship, Gallows Humor, Gen, Post-Promised Day, Science Experiments, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:01:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29052567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lloegyn/pseuds/Lloegyn
Summary: Six years after the Promised Day, Edward Elric leads a quiet(er) life with his fiancée in Resembool. But when military scouts spot a Drachman flag flying over Fort Briggs, Ed and Winry both soon find themselves heading north. Between warmongering generals, foreign fugitives, and a nefarious scheme for human transmutation, nothing is quite so simple as it seems.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Winry Rockbell
Series: Engineered Chaos [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2131434
Comments: 35
Kudos: 27





	1. Prologue: The Crimson Crest

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to ProfessorPalmarosa for beta reading this work!
> 
> Please note this story contains disturbing elements. Aside from the standard archive warnings, I will include chapter-level content warnings in the end notes.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

_Briggs Mountains, Drachma – January 22nd, 1915_

Galina kicked her boot against the ice, testing the bite of her snow grips. This winter had brought tricky weather. Whatever melted in the daytime refroze overnight, making the terrain especially treacherous. Nevertheless, General Leytenant Lenkov had insisted on bringing over a dozen of the Drachman Imperial Army’s finest multi-operator siege guns.

Beside him, the foreigner – a slim man with angular features and a thin black ponytail – exuded quiet confidence. Everything about him seemed sleek and sharp, like a sword with a razor thin edge. Despite the bitter cold, he dressed in a simple all-white suit with matching fedora; his neck exposed save for a dark purple tie. If the cold affected him in any way, he never showed a sign.

He was clearly an Amestrian, though no southerner should possess such resilience to Drachman winters. It was unnatural. Perturbed, Galina recalled a disquieting rumor she’d heard around the campfire last night. Her comrades had whispered that the foreigner was not only a traitor to his country, but also one of their notorious State Alchemists.

 _Dog of the military_ , her mind supplied, though she couldn’t remember where she’d heard the term.

“SOLDIERS, HALT!” Lenkov bellowed, his voice cutting through the icy wind.

Taking her place beside the right flank siege gun, Galina adjusted her rifle strap so the gun laid flat against her back. If all went according to plan, she wouldn’t need it. According to the Amestrian defector, the soldiers of Fort Briggs were already on the verge of mutiny and the sight of Drachman forces on their doorstep would be the catalyst for an unstoppable wave of treason.

Galina squinted at the massive fortress, trying to imagine the allies who waited inside. Were they imperialist sympathizers? Perhaps descendants of Drachman families trapped behind the border when the Amestrians annexed Letomgrad Oblast nearly a century ago? Or were they simply opportunists with no cause more noble than ousting an unpopular commander? The inscrutable façade of Fort Briggs yielded no answers.

“GUNS READY!” 

Clearing his throat, Polkovnik Utkin waddled through the slushy snow with hands clasped behind his back. Each stiff-legged stomp lent new meaning to the term ‘goose-step’, but while the enlisted men laughed about it in secret, none were brave enough to raise a comment in his presence. Utkin slowly examined his battalion, dark eyes glinting from beneath his tall fur hat. Though his beard twitched, the hair was so bushy no one could discern whether he smiled or frowned.

Galina rocked on her heels, watching as the cannoneer shoved an iron ball into the chamber. Despite the bitter cold and his muscular frame, the exertion left his face flushed and sweaty. They had practiced this routine more times than she could count, but her heart still raced at the prospect of pitting these powerful weapons against a real enemy. This day would go down in history. She could feel it.

At the cannoneer’s signal, Galina retrieved the first bagged charge and immediately frowned. It felt wrong somehow. Unable to tell whether the gunpowder was wet or simply cold, she poked the soft silk and cursed under her breath at the remaining indent.

“Problem, soldier?” Utkin suddenly asked.

“No, sir!” she stiffly saluted, mortified that she hadn’t heard him approach. 

His eyes narrowed, clearly unimpressed. “Load the powder, _girl_.”

Galina bristled as he waddled away. That word, that one word, had soured her entire mood. She was a soldier, dammit. Not some foolish child playing make-believe. 

Quietly seething, she grabbed a second charge. The moisture probably hadn’t seeped in far, leaving the interiors dry enough to combust. Better to hit Fort Briggs extra hard than miss the target entirely. She passed the charges to the cannoneer, satisfied when he weighed them with an approving nod.

“Want me to tilt this gun a little lower?” he asked, a piece of hard licorice rattling against his teeth. “We could always make the old duck fly.”

Galina snorted, playfully punching him in the shoulder. “Oh shut up, Nikita. You’ll get us killed if he hears you.”

Nikita shrugged, shoving the charges behind the enormous cannonball. Galina had expected him to laugh, but his expression remained unnervingly serious. She didn’t bother to ask. They didn’t have time and she wasn’t so sure she wanted to know.

“READY!” Lenkov called, his voice cracking.

He cut an impressive figure in his billowing overcoat and fur hat decorated with a gold and purple tassel. His dark beard and long nose gave him a distinguished, almost regal appearance reminiscent of the medieval icons gracing every altar of the Drachman Orthodox Church.

“AIM!”

Nikita squinted, tilting the gun a few degrees higher. He cheeked the candy, sucking in deep concentration as he shooed Galina away. She stepped back, eagerly anticipating the final command.

“FIRE!”

At once, the siege guns exploded in an ear-splitting crescendo of smoke and red-hot iron. The cannonballs tore through the air, racing towards the looming fortress at frightening speed. The siege gun lurched backwards, spitting up clouds of black soot and leaving residue on Nikita’s face, neck, and arms.

Galina bit her lip and ignored the ringing in her ears as their own cannonball zipped past the others like a stubborn comet. With a thunderous crack, it flew into the defensive wall, leaving a deep pockmark on the fractured concrete and crumbling the frames from two casemates. With their protective housings destabilized, the mortars within would be too dangerous to operate.

Galina’s heart pounded in giddy excitement. Basic training had hardly prepared her for the rush of real battle! Once the mutineers gained control over Fort Briggs, the fight would quickly draw to a close. Still, the Drachmans had managed this much by themselves and Galina could proudly put her own name to one of the fortress’s new scars.

“READY!”

The command snapped her from her reverie. Already, Nikita was shoving another cannonball into the siege gun’s chamber, careful not to touch the scorching metal with the bare fingers poking through his gloves.

“Gunpowder,” he grunted, holding the cannonball in place. 

Immediately, Galina picked more charges from the middle of the crate. If two sodden bags could cause that much damage, she couldn’t wait to see what two intact ones would do.

Suddenly, a series of deafening booms erupted over the battlefield.

Startled, she dropped the charges in the snow, already internally griping at the mistake. The other teams needed to get their acts together. Sure, she both understood and shared their eagerness, but Lenkov hadn’t even given the order yet!

Galina scowled at the line of siege guns, but her stomach twisted when she saw only three still upright. The others lay in pieces, either upside-down or turned on their sides. Her neighboring crew lay prone in the snow, their cannoneer pinned through the neck by a broken axle. Beside him, the charge handler choked out ragged screams, the smoking barrel crushing his body and cooking his skin. Foot soldiers ran for cover, slipping against the ice as bullets rained overhead.

Nikita shoved Galina’s head to the ground, swiftly kicking away the gunpowder crate. She lay rigidly still, watching in confusion as the bullets mowed down her comrades like vermin. How had everything changed so quickly? Where were the Amestrian defectors?

Abruptly, the machine guns stopped.

From the snow, a lump she’d mistaken for a dead soldier poked up its head, hat sitting lopsided atop a nest of fluffy white hair. Utkin scrambled to his feet, limply waddling to the abandoned crate. Galina’s warning cry came out garbled, too faint to reach the officer’s ears.

A single bullet pierced the crate. In a split second, bluish-white flames erupted, rapidly swelling in a spectacular crackle of light. The explosion blew everything within a few meters’ radius into smithereens. Wind scattered the charred remnants over the battlefield, depositing a burnt scrap of fur just within Galina’s reach, its tiny tassel still perfectly intact. No wonder the machine guns had stopped. By now, snipers were more economical.

“Run,” Nikita said, his voice low and deadly serious.

“No! I’m a soldier of Drachma, same as you!”

“Not the same.”

“I signed up for this!” Galina bitterly argued. “I know you mean well, but you can’t protect me forever, Nikita. From the moment I put on this uniform, I swore to eat, sleep, breathe, fight, and die for Drachma! Same as you!”

Nikita didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his brow furrowed in an unreadable expression. Time had deepened the fine lines of his face, and his dull eyes looked back at her as if through frosted glass.

“Not the same,” he repeated softly. “You’re here to fight. I’m here because I made a promise and I mean to keep it.”

Galina knew her lips moved, but she didn’t catch whichever words came out. Perhaps none did. Her tongue felt dry and unwieldy as it stuck to the roof of her mouth.

Slowly, Nikita pulled himself up. He bent with a violent cough, drops of blood trickling from his lips. “Run,” he choked. “ _Run._ ”

Though numb, Galina vaguely felt her head shaking. Nikita’s hand trembled at his side, fingers tightening around the holstered revolver. For a brief second, the barrel pointed right between Galina’s eyes. She held her breath as he raised the revolver, hands clasping the grip as if in prayer. He nodded to the dense mountain forest on the horizon.

“Run. I’ll cover you.”

“Nikita, please! I’ll go, I promise. Just don’t make me go alone!”

The cocking gun cut off her pleas. Realizing she’d lost the argument, Galina rose to her feet, unsteady on the slippery ice. Nikita made no motion to help her, instead keeping his silent vigil with haunted eyes trained on the battlefield.

Across the plain, dark shapes lay crumpled in pools of angry red. Where the snow was more porous, the blood left an oddly beautiful stain of pink. Crimson coagulated into purplish-black sludge, smeared here and there by frantic boot prints. The air hung heavy and strangely still, punctuated only by the rare zip of bullets, each aimed with deadly precision.

Galina turned to the mountains. The tree line was close, but in between lay a slick field littered with freezing bodies and overturned war machines. Heavy winter clothes weighed her down, but Galina could afford to part with none of them. In her scramble to reach that sprawling taiga, she’d be easy prey for the Amestrian snipers.

But staying here was not an option. Though the siege gun provided shelter for now, a single high explosive shell would ignite the gunpowder still caked within. At any moment, this temporary refuge could become the instrument of both hers and Nikita’s deaths. His eyes bored into her back, willing her to leave.

“I’ll run,” she said, rounding on him with a determined glare. “But you better follow.”

Nikita wearily nodded.

Satisfied, Galina bent her knees and prayed that the impending burst of activity would invigorate her stiffening limbs. She sprinted over the ice, pumping her legs with more energy than she’d ever thought she possessed. Her snow grips bit through the hardened spots, but left her slipping and sliding over the slush.

At the sound of a gunshot, Galina glanced over her shoulder. Nikita brandished the smoking revolver as he staggered in the snow, already hopelessly far behind. She wanted to turn around, throw her arm around his back, and drag him to safety beyond the looming tree line. But she was already running too fast to stop.

Nikita’s figure grew smaller and smaller as he struggled to keep up and the wind drowned out his shouts. Galina strained to catch his words, her eyes growing wide as he raised the revolver again.

The bullet wasn’t meant for her, but she swerved regardless. Something blocked her path, and the collision knocked her to the ground in a graceless heap. She hissed at the pain, straightening her legs that definitely weren’t meant to bend that way. Whatever she bumped into was soft…and warm. It had to be a person, but Nikita wouldn’t have fired at a comrade.

Her gaze fell on a shoe that had once been white. Slowly looking up, she examined the white slacks speckled with crimson pinpricks, then the matching waistcoat and jacket, both now sullied with gunpowder residue.

The alchemist.

His ungloved finger rubbed a smudge on his waistcoat then rose to his beaklike nose. After a quick sniff, his lip curled with bemusement. In a single movement, he grabbed hold of Galina’s throat and dragged her up with more strength than his slender frame belied. 

Her windpipe contracted, nearly collapsing under the force of his grip. She squirmed and scratched, trying in vain to tear that contemptuous grin from his face.

Another shot zipped over their heads. The wind carried Nikita’s shouts, but his words were lost amidst the painful pounding in Galina’s eardrums. The alchemist straddled her torso, his acrid breath tickling her ear.

“Well, aren’t _you_ a firecracker?” 

Though black spots swam across her vision, Galina saw a splayed hand rising over her face. Its fingers curled over a tattooed palm, where tiny nonsensical words encircled an upside-down triangle. In the very center, a distinct dot drew her in with almost hypnotic power.

Galina gasped for breath, but the palm clamped over her face. Heat rose beneath her skin, prickling her like thousands of fire ants biting her all at once. She writhed under the alchemist’s weight, kicking wildly but hitting nothing. Though she frantically clawed, her thick gloves reduced her efforts to pitiful swats.

A bullet whizzed past her attacker’s head, sending his fedora flying and his ponytail fluttering. A couple of long dark hairs fell into Galina’s face. The alchemist cupped his ear, his face contorting as blood seeped between his fingers. Shoving her roughly to the ground, his knee dug into her chest as he released her throat.

Galina fell into a coughing fit, her lungs screaming for air. She needed to run – she _knew_ that – but her body just wouldn’t obey. Her arms and legs felt numb and prickly as she lay on her side, greedily sucking in air with each painful inhale.

From her snowy bed, she could just discern Lenkov breathing raggedly and bleeding from a gash over his eyebrow. The blood ran down his face and crusted in his beard. His fingers twitched at the shrapnel embedded in his thigh, and his trembling hand held aloft a revolver still smoking from the fired bullet.

The alchemist rose to his full height, clutching his bleeding ear. Though Galina couldn’t see his face, the hunch of his shoulders radiated pure rage. Slowly, he took a step towards the dying man. Lenkov held the revolver steady, but did not fire another shot.

 _Oh God, he’s out of bullets,_ Galina realized. She felt ill.

Appearing to reach the same conclusion, the alchemist’s shoulders relaxed. Calmly, he stalked towards the Drachman officer. Every step heightened Lenkov’s breath, the revolver shaking so badly it slipped from his fingers. In a matter of seconds, the alchemist closed in, reducing his target to a blubbering mess.

“No, no, no… _mmph_!”

His hand clamped over Lenkov’s face, cracking his skull against the ground. The officer wildly thrashed, muffled screams still loud enough to make Galina’s eardrums throb. Lenkov swiped at his attacker, but his fingers grazed uselessly against the dirtied white suit. Suddenly, a crackle of red lightning erupted from beneath that tattooed palm. Releasing his victim, the alchemist stepped back, his sleek face gleaming with anticipation.

Lenkov’s shriek echoed through the battlefield. His strangled screams grew hoarse as his eyes bulged from their sockets. His skin bubbled and darkened, turning deep purple as it swelled. Slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster. His body ballooned, sending pins and buttons flying as they popped off his stretching uniform. An inhuman screech escaped his throat, suddenly muffled by his expanding mass until…

_BOOM!_

The uniform ripped, its shredded ribbons dancing in a visceral red mist. Galina flinched as the hot droplets dotted her skin and clothes. Weakly, she rubbed her sleeve against her face. Her tears mixed with the blood, filling her nostrils with the scent of raw salted meat.

A nearby crunch caught her attention. The alchemist crouched beside something Galina didn’t recognize but knew deep down was all that remained of poor Lenkov. Steam rose from the bubbling mass, condensing in the cold air and dripping from the tips of sharp, oddly curved protrusions sticking up from the…the spine.

_Spine. Rib cage._

She choked up a mouthful of bile. As long as she didn’t think about it, the pink snow felt pleasant against her flushed cheek. But how could she not think about it? Galina whined in agony, curling into a ball. The overwhelming stench filled her sinuses, her eyes drawn to the single shred resting by the tip of her nose. A wisp of condensation rose from the strip and into the frigid air. Up close, it wasn’t black. Just deep, dark purple.

The alchemist gracefully straightened, his long fingers caressing Lenkov’s revolver like a cherished pet. With a gentle push of his thumb, he popped the cylinder open. The hairs on the back of Galina’s neck prickled when he pulled a single bullet from his pocket and slid it into one of the gun’s six chambers. He turned around, eyes and grin too large for his angular face as he tipped the cylinder, conspiratorially showing Galina the lone bullet. With a flourished spin, he popped it back into place.

“Let’s play a game. Maybe a round of Drachman roulette?”

Galina scrambled to her hands and knees, cursing as she slipped against the ice. Unfazed, the alchemist took another step and cocked the gun. He closed an eye, pressed the barrel to his temple, and pulled the trigger.

At the empty click, his grin nearly cleaved his face in half.

Once again, he stepped forward and cocked the gun. Galina struggled to stand upright, her limbs stiff and lungs still clamoring for air. Her boot slid, but stopped as the grips snagged against the icy surface. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, setting her heart nearly beating out of her…her…rib cage. She bolted full speed towards the mountains.

_Nikita, please be safe! Oh please, oh please, oh please…_

The next shot tore through Galina’s coat, lodging between her shoulder blade and neck. The pain shot through every nerve of her body and she slipped in a pool of purple sludge, collapsing to the frozen ground. With trembling fingers, she probed the wound, horrified to find her hand covered in blood.

The familiar sound of footsteps on snow dragged her back to the present. Wasn’t this over yet? How could it not be over yet?! She held in her breath and her sobs, trying to remain as silent as possible. Yes, part of her wanted it to be over. It just hurt so damn much! But she’d promised Nikita, promised her family, and promised the tsar. She would protect Drachma, and to do that she had to live on.

 _Just survive today_ , she ordered herself as the footsteps drew near.

Galina remained utterly still as the alchemist’s shoes – those fucking white shoes – stopped just a breath away. Carefully, he pushed a pointed toe into the gunshot wound, probing for any sort of reaction. Her jaws clamped, nearly cracking a tooth as she drew on every reserve of her remaining strength to suppress the scream building in her chest. But eventually the pressure stopped, and the footsteps crunched softly away.

After a few seconds, Galina squinted through her tangled bangs. The air hung damp and heavy, the wind blowing flecks of dark red, purple, and black. The alchemist stopped to pick up his fallen fedora, adjusting it neatly atop his disheveled hair. He either failed to notice or simply ignored the bloody fingerprints he left on the hat’s white surface.

He walked leisurely across the silent battlefield, running his bare fingers over the twisted corpses. Beneath the fedora’s brim, Galina couldn’t tell if his eyes were closed or if he was simply basking in the enormity of his macabre handiwork. Either way, his mad grin had dwindled to a jarringly tranquil smile.

In moments, he stood small against the horizon. His white suit would have blended into the frozen landscape were it not streaked with the blood and fluids of Galina’s massacred countrymen. The ponytail whipped across his narrow back as he stared up at the unyielding fortress. With a steady hand, he removed the fedora and gracefully bowed, as if paying homage.

 _He played us for fools,_ Galina bitterly thought. _They all did._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: graphic depictions of violence and death


	2. New Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six years later, Ed and Al each receive some important news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge thanks to ProfessorPalmarosa for beta reading this series!
> 
> No content warnings for this chapter.

_Imperial Palace, Xing – November 17th, 1921_

During his years bound to a suit of armor, Alphonse Elric kept a journal of every experience he one day hoped to have. Its pages overflowed with heartfelt wishes, from an innocent first kiss to stroking the soft belly fur of his very own cat. Yet with his body finally restored, he was mildly embarrassed to find over half the entries were about food: Gracia Hughes’s apple pie, Granny Pinako’s beef stew, and even the infamous meat pie of the East City HQ cafeteria.

On his first trip to Xing, Al had been stunned by the country’s eight regional cuisines – all unique and flavorful, and all served nightly at the Imperial Palace. Delicate shrimp dumplings wrapped in crystal clear dough, stir-fried bok choy with oyster mushrooms in a savory sauce, fluffy steamed buns filled with minced pork and leek...

He was in love with a country, with its food, and quite possibly with Head Chef Xi for slipping him extra almond cookies after dinner.

But somewhere along the way, Al had ceased to be that scrappy teen determined to revive his emaciated body one hard-fought calorie at a time. Now he gave his belly a miserable poke and grimly acknowledged that his daily sparring sessions with Princess Mei Chang had become his sole defense in the battle of the bulge.

When a knock interrupted his thoughts, Al looked up to see a fan-shaped coiffure with an opal hairpin bobbing up and down outside the window. Rising from his cushion, he slipped on a pair of cotton house shoes and slid the door open. No higher than his chest stood a young maid, her cheeks rounded with a cheerful smile. She presented him with a tray of congee topped with shredded chicken, scallions, and sliced chilies.

He smiled. “Good morning, Suyin!”

“Good morning! Breakfast, Master Alphonse?”

Al enthusiastically nodded, stepping aside so the servant could place the tray on the rosewood table. With a happy little clap, she arranged the sauce dishes and warmed his teacup with hot water. He salivated as she straightened his chopsticks, then fluffed his cushion, _then_ checked the teapot to ensure the water was just the right temperature.

Suyin giggled when Al’s stomach growled but otherwise pretended not to notice. Satisfied at long last, she modestly curtsied, bowed her head, and shuffled backwards out of the room. Al swore he’d never get used to this goodwill ambassador business.

When he finally sat down to enjoy his breakfast, he noticed a letter perched between the teapot and the spoon rest. Though the crumpled envelope bore his name, it was written in a scrawl so indecipherable that the author might have done better with the pen held between his teeth. Only one person in Al’s social circle would deem that scribble sufficiently legible for the postal system. Amused, he broke the seal and began to read.

_October 26th, 1921_

_Dear Al,_

_Don’t they have phones in Xing? Seriously, this is ridiculous. I haven’t heard from you in so long I thought maybe that bean sprout girl had dragged you off to a cave somewhere and made you her wife._

Al groaned and rubbed his eyes. He slurped a spoonful of congee before continuing.

_So anyway, I gotta tell you something super cool. You know how I got that research stipend back in January? Well, let’s just say Winry’s involved now and we’ve got a little “side project” going in our spare time._

Somehow, Al found the prospect of his brother and childhood friend working together on a project equal parts amusing and terrifying. Ed was still a genius without the alchemy, and Winry’s knack for machinery was borderline savant. Together, they could easily drum up some spectacular creations. Well, assuming they didn’t kill each other first.

Chopsticks in hand, Al plucked a clump of chicken and swirled it in spicy vinegar. His eyes closed in pleasure as the morsel hit his tongue. Thank goodness no one else was around to hear the awkward moan that followed. Blissfully chewing on the tender chicken, he returned to the letter.

_Winry’s doing all the hard work, but she did say I’m talented with lubricants! Guess Mom was right about us both being “gifted”, am I right?_

His cheeks flushed. Did Ed even read his letters before taking them to the post office? No, scratch that. He most definitely did. Al could picture him now, snickering and adding well-placed quotation marks just to get a rise out of his little brother. At least he’d conceded Winry’s greater contribution to their project. That alone hinted at some shred of burgeoning maturity, innuendos aside. Al shook his head and washed down his last bite with a swallow of jasmine tea.

_Guess I’m just rambling now, but point is you gotta come see her when she’s ready, little bro. She’s gonna be gorgeous!_

_Love,_

_Ed_

Wait. Who was ‘she’?! From the turn of phrase, Al didn’t think his brother meant Winry. He skimmed the letter from top to bottom, certain he’d missed a key point somewhere. As the words slowly sunk in, a scandalized scream built up in his lungs.

“BROTHER, WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

Congee and serving ware scattered over the floor mats as Al bolted upright. He tripped on the low table, swearing under his breath. Cradling his stubbed toes, he hobbled to the closet, fumbled for the latch, and nearly tore through the rice paper door.

Ed had really done it this time. Still unmarried, and he had the gall to be smug about this. And Winry! Had his brother’s recklessness finally rubbed off on his poor fiancée? Sure, Al had always been the voice of reason between the two siblings, but Winry had kept them _both_ in line! She hardly even needed the wrench.

He felt happy for them, he really did, but the unexpected news somehow hurt. Until now, Al hadn’t realized that particular seed of bitterness still lay buried deep in his heart. Since they were children, Ed had always done everything in his own time and way. Unconventional was par for the course, so perhaps he should have expected this. But given their own upbringing, Al had simply assumed his brother would handle family matters in the proper order.

With the closet door open, he dropped to his knees and rummaged through the mess to unearth his empty satchel. When had he accumulated so many things? He hadn’t needed all this stuff back when he and Ed were teenagers tromping through the countryside in search of semi-legendary alchemical relics. Then again, he hadn’t had hair to clean, teeth to brush, a body to dress, or a stomach to feed. Human bodies needed so much maintenance. Everything was much simpler when…

_No, don’t go there. Just don’t._

Al closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He would not continue that train of thought. It was over and done, everything exactly as it should be. End of story.

First, the satchel. One task at a time. After a frenzied search, he noticed a strap pinned under a tower of books stacked to the ceiling. Carefully, he steadied the stack with one hand and looped the other around the strap. If he pulled very slowly, very gently, he could extract the satchel without disturbing the books.

“Alphonse, is everything OK in here? Suyin said she heard you shouting.”

He jumped at the sudden squeak of Mei’s voice. By accident, he jerked the strap. Paralyzed, Al held the satchel to his chest, heart pounding as he stared at the haphazard tower. It wobbled. On cue, the books collapsed, racing to cram their reams of knowledge directly into his fragile head. Al supposed there were worse ways to die, but none came to mind at the moment.

With a resounding crash, the books buried the unfortunate alchemist in a veritable avalanche. Al’s whole body felt like bruises and paper cuts. His eye began to swell, and he winced at the sting of a newly split lip. To his relief, two pairs of hands immediately started to unearth him, shoving aside books as fast as they could.

Mei wouldn’t lift a finger to heal him either, instead viewing such incidents as ‘practice opportunities’ for his alkahestry studies. Still, Al maintained a sliver of hope that he might look pitiful enough to warrant a little mercy.

“Alphonse,” her voice oozed with suspicion as she picked up the satchel. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

That tone warned of an impending tongue-lashing. Realizing he’d earned no sympathy from Mei, Al morbidly wondered if his poor head could take another beating. “Amestris.”

“But we just got back from the Huang Clan territory two days ago!”

“Mei – ”

“Your body needs to rest!”

“I’LL SLEEP ON THE TRAIN!” he snapped, instantly remorseful for raising his voice.

Mei had his best interests at heart, and he couldn’t fault her concern. His travels over the past month really had been strenuous. Normally, he wouldn’t consider another long journey so soon, but this occasion was just too important to miss.

Her dark eyes narrowed. “Ed did something stupid, didn’t he?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

Mei palmed her face. From the corner of his eye, Al noticed Suyin picking up the strewn books. She bounced to the closet carrying a stack higher than her head, deposited the books at the top of a new lopsided tower, then giddily skipped back to the pile to retrieve the next round. That solved one mystery, at least.

He yelped when a finger poked his ribs. Al pouted until he caught Mei’s expectant look. Right, he still owed her an explanation.

“I think I’m about to be an uncle,” he groaned.

* * *

_Resembool, Amestris – November 24th, 1921_

Edward Elric placed a third bowl onto the gingham tablecloth and inhaled the delicious scent of stew simmering atop the wood stove. Silently, he mourned that it wouldn’t be ready for a few more hours.

On cold rainy days like this, his leg port ached terribly. Winry would always insist he stay indoors, citing his inevitable grouchiness as grounds for temporary eviction from their workshop in the barn. But much as he resented confinement to the house, dreary days also meant more pampering from the otherwise stringent Rockbell women.

After a long day of fighting off phantom pains and stiffness, Ed knew he could count on several bowls of his favorite beef stew served with hot crusty bread. He looked forward to those quiet evenings curled up by the fireplace with a good book enjoying the easy company of family. Satisfied with the table placement, he stepped across the kitchen to look over Granny Pinako’s shoulder – a feat he still relished despite surpassing the old woman’s height many years before.

“Not ready yet,” she said, peeling a potato with practiced ease.

His stomach rumbled in response. Granny sighed and put down the knife. With a huff, she reached for a colander of freshly-rinsed root vegetables and shoved a twisted, sad-looking carrot into his hands.

“Here,” she grunted. “You can have the ugly one.”

“Aren’t they all going in the pot anyway?”

From the look she gave him, Ed decided not to question the all powerful stew-maker. He bit the carrot before she could reclaim it for the pot. Retrieving the sourdough crock from its warm spot on the windowsill, he poked the spongy mixture within and watched with keen interest as the hooch pooled around his finger.

Ed weighed the crock on the kitchen scale, chewing his ugly carrot as the needle leapt across the dial. Recording the mass, he pulled out the flour jar and checked the bath thermometer resting in a bowl of recently boiled water.

“Dammit,” he swore, scavenging the utensils drawer for an ice pick.

The recipe called for room temperature water, but what did that even mean? Rooms could be any temperature! Whoever wrote that drivel had clearly never spent the winter in an unheated mountain farmhouse.

Granny raised a chopping block over the stew pot, her eyes crinkling with amusement at Ed hunched in front of the icebox angrily chipping off shards into a teacup. Beside her, a black and white dog curled against the cabinet, tail thumping happily as she buried her muzzle under an automail front leg.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect, you know.”

Ed’s eyes cut to the chopping block and narrowed as they honed in on the impeccably sliced vegetables. Granny smiled sweetly, sliding them gracefully into the pot. With his mouth full, Ed merely growled.

Suddenly, the door creaked open and a cool draft circulated through the kitchen. Winry stepped inside, raking her work boots against the bristly doormat. Her coveralls were drenched, but the rain had not yet washed the grease spots from her wind-chapped cheeks. Peeling off her gloves, she hung her chore coat on a hook by the door.

“Phew! Finally got that rotary engine rebuilt!”

Granny smiled and bent down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “So are you two installing it tomorrow?”

“Already done!” Winry crowed, striking a triumphant pose to flex her bicep.

Despite his sour mood, Ed felt a twinge of pride as his fiancée showed off her muscles. Her grandmother nodded approvingly, and he eagerly nodded along. Winry could probably deadlift him over her head, but Ed wasn’t complaining at all. If he could ever convince her to spar, she’d be unstoppable.

She snorted at the mess on the counter. “Feeding time, Ed?”

“Come off it,” he warned, dumping the ice shards into the boiling water. “It’s important to replenish the starter on a regular basis with a one-to-one ratio of flour and ‘room temperature’ water. That way, the amylase enzymes can hydrolyze the starch into maltose and glucose. The maltose feeds the bacteria, producing lactic acid. Then the yeast metabolize the glucose and release carbon dioxide as they ferment, which – ”

“OK, OK!” she laughed, clutching at her sides and waving a hand in surrender. “Point taken. But I still think you should name it if you’re turning it into a pet.”

“PET?! This is microbiology, Winry! It’s science, not a damn dog!”

“ _Bark!_ ”

“S-sorry, Den…”

Den grunted and laid her snout on the floor, closing her cloudy eyes to continue her nap. Meanwhile, Winry sat down to unlace her work boots.

“C’mon, Ed. We could name it after someone we know. How about Lieutenant Bread-a?”

He grimaced. “No.”

“Sergeant Brioche?”

“ _No_ , Winry.”

“I’ve got it!” Her lip curled into a mischievous grin. “Doughenheim.”

Ed cringed. “Woman, don’t make me rescind that marriage proposal.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t do that,” she crooned, oozing confidence and sweetness. “You know why?”

Somehow, that question felt like a trap. “Why?”

“Because I’m the primary – ”

“Don’t say it.”

“ – breadwinner!”

There it was. Dammit, he’d walked right into that one.

Ed rolled his eyes at the horrible puns. “I dunno, Winry. You’ve taken on what…four automail jobs this year? Come to think of it, Granny pays the bills, we eat her food, live in her house. You’re falling down on the job, Sugar Mama.”

Granny dumped a pile of herbs onto her chopping block and brandished a cleaver. “Don’t drag me into this,” she muttered under her breath.

Winry’s face screwed up into an exaggerated pout. She tried to look offended, but only half a second passed before a snort broke loose. Then another. The next one devolved into a full-blown laughing fit. She wiped away the happy tears.

“Oh yeah?” she deviously smiled. “One of those jobs was for you, ingrate. Or was that someone else who got his leg stuck in a grain auger last month?”

Ed paled. Admittedly, he’d forgotten about that little incident, but Farmer Tate sure hadn’t. Every time he saw Ed around town, the old man would joke that his grain had a little extra ‘kick’ or that having another pair of hands around the farm had given him a real ‘leg up’ on the competition. So much for community service. Ed made a mental note to give hermitage a try next harvest season.

Cursing under his breath, he weighed out the flour and shot Winry a dirty look. She grinned, pleased at getting in the last word. Setting her boots by the door, she padded across the kitchen in her wool socks. Her arms wrapped around his waist as she pecked his cheek. Ed felt his cheeks flush red. Winry could win every argument if they ended like this. Like him, she probably picked them for that very reason.

Despite his ornery mood, he enjoyed the feeling of her chin resting on his shoulder, her strong arms wrapped around him, and her warm breath against his ear. He checked the bath thermometer again, pleased to see the ice had sufficiently cooled the water. To confirm, he dipped a finger and found it lukewarm. Suddenly, an idea took hold. With a mischievous grin, he splashed the water in Winry’s face. She squeaked, sputtered, and immediately let go, furiously fumbling for the wrench hidden somewhere in her coveralls.

Ed smiled. “Oops.”

When the telephone rang, he swiftly answered. The distraction was perfectly timed, and he silently thanked the caller for getting him out of a well-deserved bludgeoning. Winry glared at him from the sink, filling a saucepan with water.

“Rockbell Automail. Ed speaking.”

The line crackled as a tinny voice came through. “Hello. This is Amelia Gladstone from Fuhrer Grumman’s office. Do I have the pleasure of speaking with Major Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist?”

Ed paused, his heart rate rising. What could the Fuhrer’s office want with him now? The government had diversified in recent years to a better balance of military versus civilian functions, but the secretary’s chosen form of address unsettled him.

“Retired,” he firmly corrected her. “But yes, this is Major Elric.”

Granny stopped chopping, her fingers clenched around a bundle of parsley. Winry moved the saucepan to the wood stove. She glanced at him anxiously as she opened the sourdough crock.

“Right sir,” Gladstone said. “I’m calling in regards to your grant report. Fuhrer Grumman is highly interested in yours and Miss Rockbell’s latest design.”

A wave of relief washed over him. Ed winked at the two women and chuckled. “Hehe. Liked that one, did he?”

Winry raised an eyebrow, eagerly biting her lip and exchanging a look with her grandmother. Granny’s shoulders relaxed as she returned to quietly chopping herbs.

“Very much so. He’s invited you both to Central Headquarters to present your findings in person. The government will reimburse your travel expenses in full, but His Excellency sincerely requests that you keep this trip on a need-to-know basis. This is, after all, a sensitive matter.”

“Um, sure. Of course. When should we be there?”

Winry clasped her hands over her mouth. She bounced up and down on her toes, hips swishing excitedly. Timidly, she lowered her hands.

‘Research committee?’ she soundlessly mouthed.

Ed covered the transmitter. ‘Fuhrer,’ he mouthed back.

He couldn’t help but smirk at her giddy victory dance, but he still felt puzzled. Why all the secrecy for a civilian project? Unfortunately, communications protocol for civilian lines meant any such questions would merit only the vaguest answers. Better to wait and ask in person.

“Let’s see,” Gladstone continued, papers rustling in the background. “Fuhrer Grumman’s next opening is the morning of Monday, November 28th. Oh dear, that’s rather soon. If you need more time, I can – ”

“Not a problem. Monday it is.”

“Very good, Major. We look forward to seeing you both in Central. Have a safe journey.”

The phone clicked, and just as Ed returned the transmitter to its hook, Winry scooped him into a huge bear hug.

“They like it! They really like it!” she squealed, squeezing him tight as her face lit up. “Hey, why don’t we catch the overnight train? Then we could hit Macheath Music before they close for the weekend! We need a lot more piano wire and we’re also running low on that…that…what do you call it? The stuff they put on guitars?”

“Nitrocellulose lacquer?”

“Yes, that! We could visit Mrs. Hughes and Elysia too. We missed them last time, and I know they’d love to see us!”

Ed frowned. He wasn’t opposed to visiting a few friends, but he really wished Winry wouldn’t try to cram so much into so little time. Central was home to many people he cared about, but the city itself held no appeal. It was loud and crowded, full of pollution, and everything was overpriced. After visiting towns and cities all over Amestris, Creta, and Milos; Ed had more than enough evidence to support his hypothesis that Central was, in fact, a cesspit.

“…and the libraries are all open on Saturday, right?”

Winry’s voice snapped him from his reverie. He stared back at her smug grin. That sly woman had him at ‘library’ and she knew it. He and Al had once been regulars at every library in Central, but they’d focused rather exclusively on the alchemy sections. Ed’s blood quickened at the promise of volume after volume of useful information he’d never had the chance to peruse. Even the public libraries would have reference books on woodworking, metallurgy, gyroscopic precession, and numerous other topics. Resembool’s monthly book wagon just couldn’t compare.

“OK fine,” he said, pulling away just enough to look her in the eye. “You win this round, but now you better pack.”

“Thank you!”

She planted a sloppy kiss on his lips and ran upstairs to throw her clothes, toiletries, and whatever else she could think of into an oversized bag he’d inevitably wind up carrying. Ed thought of his own tattered briefcase tucked away in the closet, always packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice. If these trips became more frequent, he and Winry would need to have a long discussion on the virtues of light packing.

The clink of ceramic caught his attention. Granny stood on her tiptoes balancing two bowls in one hand. They shook as she reached for the overhead cabinet, and the top one began to slide. Ed darted to her side as quickly as possible, barely catching the bowl before it could shatter. He sighed with relief, for a split second morbidly aware of just how careful he’d grown in the absence of alchemy. Wordlessly, he returned both bowls to their designated space.

“Thanks runt,” the old woman said, her beady eyes hidden by the reflection on her glasses.

Ed pointedly ignored the nickname, instead noting the lingering shakiness in her hands. The weather had gotten to her as well, judging from her red swollen knuckles. Both of them were too stubborn to admit any pain, but after so many years, the words weren’t necessary. Even if only for a few days, Ed doubted the wisdom of extending their trip to Central.

He made a mental note to call one of Granny’s bridge club friends when they stopped in East City to change lines. Considering the old ladies spent more time downing shots and gossiping about their neighbors than actually playing bridge, Winry was probably justified in calling it the ‘bitch and booze’ club. Nonetheless, he hoped the women could check on each other.

“No problem, micro-hag.”

Granny rolled her eyes and stirred the stew. The aroma wafted through the kitchen, filling Ed’s nostrils and earning an involuntary stomach growl.

“How much longer?” he pitifully whined. From the single bowl left on the kitchen table, he guessed the answer already.

“Mmm, delicious stew,” she sadistically smiled. “So much better than nasty train food.”

Ed grumbled. The evening train would leave in about two hours, but gathering and organizing the project notes wouldn’t take long. He could at least finish feeding the sourdough starter. Returning to his workspace, he found the water and flour already added. Winry must have done it while he was on the telephone. He gave it a vigorous stir for good measure, watching with glee as it burped.

He bit off another hunk of carrot. Though a far cry from stew, it would have to do for now. After a few seconds, the starter settled. Ed fed it daily, but Granny wasn’t likely to fool with it. She usually holed up in her workshop whenever the kids left town.

A few days in the icebox would slow down fermentation, but wouldn’t kill the carefully cultivated ecosystem of yeast and bacteria. Ed lifted the crock, pausing when he noticed something written on the side. Puzzled, he turned it around for a better look. Surrounded by doodles of hearts and wrenches, the crock now bore the name ‘BREADWARD’ written in bold capital letters. He shoved it to the back of the icebox, withdrawing his hand as if it had bitten him.

Angrily, he stomped up the stairs. “Dammit, Winry! I said it’s not a pet!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I had way too much fun writing this chapter, so I hope you enjoyed it as well.
> 
> Feedback and speculation are always welcome and appreciated!


	3. Tip of the Iceberg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy’s bad day turns even worse when trouble up north prompts a meeting of generals in Central City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to ProfessorPalmarosa, as always, for being an excellent beta reader!
> 
> Content Warning in the end notes.

_Central City, Amestris — November 24th, 1921_

Roy Mustang stared in disgust at the cut on his finger and contemplated launching a formal investigation into whichever military supplier saw fit to weaponize paper. The stuff felt heavy in his hands, but the edges were somehow sharp enough to slice through his ignition gloves. The tear over his fingertip turned crimson. Angrily, he peeled off the ruined glove and tossed it into the trash bin. That was the second one this week. His arms dropped to his sides as he slowly banged his forehead on the desk.

Captain Hawkeye had worn the same frown and no-nonsense glare since she arrived that morning and declared it ‘paperwork catchup day’. She was right, of course. Roy had always hated paperwork, but whatever bureaucratic relief he might have enjoyed after Fullmetal’s resignation was quickly quashed upon his subsequent promotion. Now he almost longed for the days when he could still see the door from his office chair.

Roy craned his neck to check the clock. 1120 hours. Perhaps he could persuade the captain to join him for an early lunch. An hour spent processing supply requisition forms had left him thoroughly drained. Mustering his most pathetic look, he met Hawkeye’s rigid stare and waved the injured finger.

Unimpressed, she slapped a bandage into his hand. “Keep going.”

“But – ”

The way her fingers twitched along the holster at her hip brooked no argument. Defeated, he applied the bandage and theatrically winced as he picked up the pen. Hawkeye’s brow merely furrowed.

“Delivery for Brigadier General Mustang!”

Roy quickly stood and smiled in appreciation at the young private standing in his doorway. She must have been new. Otherwise, he’d have recognized those dainty freckles, those short blonde curls, and that teensy miniskirt immediately. As a ranking general, surely it was his responsibility – no, his _duty_ – to welcome new talent to Central HQ. Roy reconsidered his lunch plans, musing whether the enticing private might join him instead. He adjusted his expression from suave to smoldering.

Catching his look, the woman furiously blushed and fidgeted with her lapel pin, panicking when she finally remembered to salute.

Roy smirked. _Hehe, still got it._

“At ease, Private.”

“Right, sir!” she said, relaxing a bit. “I’ll just bring these in.” 

She disappeared into the hallway, heels clacking against the tile. Soon she rolled in a cart stacked high with manila folders and papers clamped together with book-sized clips. Roy’s smug look dropped.

“Patent applications, sir! Warrant Officer Schroeder already trimmed down the list for you, so these are only the ones with potential military applications.”

Just perfect. Despite his complaints, Roy knew he could delegate most paperwork to his subordinates, as long as he took the time to sort through it. But patents? He knew better.

Last year, Roy had assigned a set of patent reviews to Second Lieutenant Breda. Breda had signed the documents on his behalf. A week later, they’d reappeared in duplicate. Each folder had borne a huge red stamp proclaiming its contents now reclassified to clearance level seven. Roy had spent a month rejecting blueprints for portable radios strapped to helmets and curved gun barrels for shooting around corners.

“Fine. Put them…” He searched for a clear spot on the desk. Finding none, he groaned and pointed to the floor. “…there.”

“Sir! Yes, sir!” 

With a wink and an all-too-cheerful grin, the private bent over with an exaggerated wiggle to unload the bottom rack of the cart. As the folders rose waist high, Roy struggled to enjoy the view. Vaguely, he could hear the woman chattering in delight. Excitedly, she bounced back into the hall, emerging with a second cart. Roy fought the urge to cry.

“Would you believe they’re all from the Eastern District Rural Division, sir? Ever since Fuhrer Grumman introduced the ‘Technological Innovations Subsidization Act’, we’ve been flooded with applications!” Her hazel eyes glistened as she clasped her hands and dreamily sighed.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she continued, wiping a small tear. “The proud and noble soul of Amestris embodied in all her children – from the Fuhrer himself down to the humblest farmer. Everyone is doing their best for the homeland, no matter how great or small!”

Forget lunch. In fact, forget Private What’s-Her-Name. No cute face or killer body could make up for crazy, and gushing over paperwork was Grade-A crazy in Roy’s book. Proud and noble soul of Amestris? Last time he checked, rednecks seeking government stipends for waterproof horse booties and fancy sheep shampoo were opportunists, not patriots.

Hawkeye’s voice broke his train of thought. “Yes, Private. We’re all very proud of our industrious men and women and their selfless spirits. Speaking of which, I’m sure Warrant Officer Schroeder could still use your help. Why don’t you see what else he needs delivered today?”

“Yes ma’am, Captain!” the bubbly private beamed, turning her attention to Roy. She bit her lip and winked, twirling a sandy lock around her finger. “See you later, Brigadier General.”

He shuddered.

Hawkeye nonchalantly escorted the woman to the door and shut it firmly behind her. “Sir, would you like to take an early lunch?” she asked, glancing at the clock.

Roy breathed a sigh of relief. Some days, he could kiss that woman.

* * *

Roy’s nose wrinkled at the unidentifiable slop on his tray. Every day, he swore to pack a sandwich and every morning he forgot. As if sensing his displeasure, a grease bubble rose and slithered over the chunky stew. He reached for the hard slab of potato roll instead. It felt cold and heavy in his hand, but at least he didn’t worry about it biting back.

Without a word, Hawkeye tore off a piece of bread and softened it in the stew before taking a deliberate bite. Two wars had given her an iron stomach.

Reluctantly, Roy followed her lead and tore his own roll in half. The bread proved tougher than it had any right to be, and he reminded himself once again to pack a damn sandwich. At least the coffee, while bitter, was strong.

“Well, well, well!” a jovial voice teased. “So this is where you two ran off to, huh?”

Hawkeye scooted over, patting the empty space. “Come join us, Havoc.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he chuckled and slid in beside her.

Havoc’s tray overflowed with an order of what Roy could only assume was extra slop with a side of instant regret. Nonetheless, he downed it with gusto, expertly navigating around the cigarette still perched on his lips.

While nauseated, Roy smiled when he noticed the new star adorning his subordinate’s shoulder. For a time, he doubted Havoc would ever walk again, let alone rejoin the military and advance to first lieutenant. The Elrics had their reasons to refuse the Philosopher’s Stone, but as for himself? Roy regretted nothing.

“Make room for Fuery too. Will you, Boss? Kid was only a few places behind me. Think he was waiting for fresh coffee.”

Roy nodded and slid over. “And Breda?”

“Salad bar.”

They all paused to share a collective chill.

“Brave man,” Hawkeye said, stirring the apple-flavored cement in her dessert bowl.

As if on cue, a gruff voice cleared his throat behind them. Second Lieutenant Breda stood stone-faced and notably salad-less, his auburn brows knitted together.

“Sorry to interrupt, sir. I ran into Lieutenant General Speri’s aide. He says the Fuhrer is calling a meeting in the war room and you’ve been summoned. I’m afraid I don’t know the details.”

“Speri?” Havoc asked through food-stuffed cheeks, gravy dribbling down his chin. “Ain’t he the head honcho down at South City HQ?”

Breda nodded, but the subsequent chatter faded from Roy’s attention. Generals did not travel unannounced, not unless there was a real emergency. Natural disaster was plausible enough, but to necessitate a meeting in Central, it would have to be colossal. The other possibility, the one that made his stomach churn, was far more likely.

In recent years, Amestris had enjoyed a period of peace with her surrounding countries. The elders of Ishval seemed content as an autonomous province, though rebuilding trust was an ongoing effort. Relations with Xing had improved since Ling Yao’s rise to emperor, and the completion of the Pan-Continental Railway. The leaders of Creta and Milos were downright friendly these days, though Roy had no clue how Fullmetal of all people had managed to charm them. However he’d done it, the citizens of Amestris certainly enjoyed the influx of affordable wines and cheeses. Aerugo…well, Roy couldn’t really call them an ‘ally’, but they’d respected the ceasefire for four years now.

That left only Drachma, their neighbor to the north.

News from Drachma was limited and outdated. While most of the world had advanced through industrial, alchemical, and even political revolutions, the frozen wastelands of the north remained a feudal agrarian society. The Drachman elite lived in a world of grand palace fortresses, luxurious hunting excursions, and glittering dance halls. Meanwhile the vast majority lived much as they had for centuries, eking out a meager living from their livestock and the unyielding soil of their homeland.

Recent reports, however, revealed growing unrest among the Drachman populace. Rumors circulated of student protests and peasant uprisings. The country’s trade deficit had steadily grown as demand for Xingese rice and Amestrian wheat skyrocketed. No representatives from the Drachman government had uttered the word, but the signs of famine were clear.

“Understood, Lieutenant. Everyone, regroup at my office. While I’m in the war room, I want you to patch a call through to Falman at Fort Briggs. See what he can tell us about the situation up north.”

“Aye, sir!” Breda, Havoc, and Hawkeye chimed in unison. They quickly cleared their trays and left the cafeteria.

Roy sat for a moment, staring into his lunch and losing what little appetite remained. Instead, he braced himself for cold coffee and downed the rest of his mug. If his hunch was correct, he’d need every last milligram of caffeine. Dumping his uneaten lunch, he dropped off the tray and headed for the war room.

Across the cafeteria, Master Sergeant Kain Fuery breathed in the smell of freshly-brewed coffee. It might not be the good stuff, but it was infinitely better than drinking the dregs. Definitely worth the wait. He scanned the crowd for Havoc, who he’d seen just a few places ahead in line. No sign.

“Huh,” he frowned. “Where’d everybody go?”

* * *

Two armed guards stood watch before carved mahogany doors. At Roy’s approach, they saluted and stepped aside. Fighting the growing knot in his gut, he pushed the doors open and walked inside. The doors creaked closed, latching behind him.

The war room and other restricted sections all lay underground. The alchemically reinforced stone was not only perfectly soundproof, but damn near impregnable. Unbeknownst to most of the military or to the civilian public, the restricted floor also housed bunkers and emergency supplies installed after the near total destruction of Central HQ during the Promised Day. Since his promotion, Roy had only once entered this domain, and he’d hoped to never see it again.

He found an empty seat at the horseshoe-shaped table. In the center stood a thickset man of average height, his salt-and-pepper hair receding from his scalp and flaring from his jawline in impressive mutton chops. He acknowledged Roy with a disinterested grunt, and turned his attention to the oversized map behind him, appraising it silently.

Roy scanned the room. Only a few of these men had sat at this table six years before. The rest – including himself – had quickly ascended rank in the aftermath of the Promised Day, when the death of Fuhrer Bradley and most of the country’s top generals resulted in a power vacuum.

“Gentlemen,” Fuhrer Grumman addressed the group, dropping a sugar cube into his tea and stirring steadily. “Thank you for meeting on such short notice. We don’t have the luxury of time, so let’s not waste it on pleasantries. Major General Vogel, if you please.”

The balding man curtly nodded and stroked his whispers. “Early this morning, North City HQ received reports of a Drachman flag seen flying over Fort Briggs. Phone lines appear to be cut and all attempts to establish radio contact have failed. We’ve sent scouts to pinpoint the locations of enemy forces, but winter is quickly approaching. Our men are working with limited daylight hours and increasingly severe blizzards – ”

“Meaning an army could march by right under our noses,” Brigadier General Gartner finished with a thin-lipped scowl.

Vogel bristled at the insinuation, but continued. “Our meteorologists predict this winter will be the worst we’ve seen in a century. In North City, we’ve already experienced four outages from overloaded power grids, and the ambient temperature is so low our train tracks are fracturing. We’ve had to bring in alchemical contractors for repairs just to keep food supplies coming in from the south. If the weather is this bad for us, how bad do you think it is in Drachma? How much worse will it be in December? Or February?”

“And you think they mustered an army under these conditions?” asked a wiry dark-skinned man, a milky cataract gleaming in his eye.

“I think they’re starving, Lieutenant General Speri.”

“Hmm,” Fuhrer Grumman tapped his fingers. “If that’s the case, then the situation is worse than we feared. An army on the brink of starvation has nothing to lose. Have we heard anything from St. Ivansburg?”

“Nothing, sir,” Vogel admitted. “But Tsar Grigori has a history of keeping his decisions off the books until he sees the results he wants. Without a formal declaration of war, he can claim ignorance and blame rogue generals if this stunt backfires. With your permission sir, my men can draft an inquiry to – ”

“The Drachmans have Fort Briggs, you imbecile!” Gartner roared, rising from his chair. His hands slammed to the table, rattling the silver spoon resting in his teacup. “If that’s not a declaration of war, I don’t know what is! While we’re in here hemming and hawing, they’re – ”

“Trying to finish a sentence, _Brigadier_ General? If potshots are all you bring to this table, either shut up or leave.”

Vogel narrowed his eyes, daring Gartner to utter one more word. He sat back down and sulked. As the sole surviving member of King Bradley’s inner sanctum, Gartner’s desperation to prove his loyalty had gotten old fast. He’d been lucky to get off with a demotion and transfer to East City. Roy hid a grin behind his folded hands.

Speri broke the silence with a low whistle. Turning his pipe upside down, he tapped tobacco ash into a small tray. “Well, perhaps we know _why_ the Drachmans attacked, but I want to know how. Fort Briggs is impenetrable. No one has ever gotten in or out of that place without Armstrong’s express permission.”

“With all due respect, Lieutenant General,” Roy interjected, “that’s not strictly true.”

Suddenly, all eyes in the room trained on him. Fuhrer Grumman quirked an eyebrow, tipping his teacup with an extended pinky finger.

Roy continued. “Near the end of the last regime, an intruder _did_ successfully infiltrate Briggs. The creature was a homunculus – a term unknown to the general public, but surely not to you gentlemen.”

He let the statement sink in. Vogel and Speri exchanged a tense glance as Gartner uncomfortably squirmed.

“Keep talking,” the Fuhrer prodded.

“Right, sir. This homunculus intruder accessed the fort through an underground tunnel, part of a nationwide transmutation circle. We all remember the transmutation was reversed, but what became of the tunnel? Does anyone here really know?”

* * *

Papers shuffled and chair legs screeched against the floor as the generals rose to leave. Whiffs of tobacco, sweat, and over-brewed tea hung in the stale air. Roy took a deep breath, willing himself into an illusion of composure. This was hardly his first war.

Fighting for his country had seemed a noble cause in his naïve youth, though that notion had shattered just days after arriving in Ishval. Amongst those blood-soaked sands, the banner of peacekeeping had rapidly devolved into a fight for survival. The military called him a hero; but for Roy, the name of that godforsaken country had for years conjured nothing but memories of suffocating smoke and the burnt sweet smell of roasting human flesh.

After the Promised Day, he’d launched a joint reconstruction campaign with Major Miles, but obstacles had appeared at every turn. Roy had expected the mistrust and insults – even some degree of hostility – but when a pipe bomb reduced the new consulate building to rubble, Miles had quietly but firmly asked him to leave. According to the reports he later received, the violence subsided soon after. Now Roy wondered whether duty, guilt, or his own vanity had fueled his need to personally oversee the restoration of Ishval.

As a young soldier, he had stood among the masses with Hughes at his side, both men thin and covered in peeling sunburns. Together, their haggard gazes had turned to the Fuhrer and his generals, realizing for the first time that they too were mere mortals. Their fates had been shaped not by an omniscient and benevolent God, but by men who claimed that right with no credentials more valid than pedigree or kissing the right asses.

One day, Roy had sworn he would climb to the very top of that ladder, even if he had to step over entitled trust fund children at every rung. He too was only human, vulnerable as any other to mistakes and misguided choices. The difference, he’d told himself, was that all _his_ decisions would be made with the best interests of the Amestrian people in mind.

“Roy?”

He startled at the pat on his shoulder. Fuhrer Grumman leaned forward, his face nearly level with Roy’s. Behind him, footsteps echoed through the stairwell as the generals ascended to the main level.

“Sorry, sir. I needed a second to collect my thoughts. I’ll just – ”

Grumman’s hand tightened when Roy tried to stand, gently but firmly compelling him to stay seated. The door hinges creaked, revealing a glimpse of Speri’s aquiline nose and unseeing eye peering through the crack. The door softly latched behind him.

“Indulge an old man for a moment, would you?” Grumman asked. The curl of his mustache gave the impression of a kindly smile, but Roy detected a subtle sharpness in his voice.

“Surely your best years are still ahead of you, sir.”

The words came by rote. They tasted dry, like the astringent tea still lingering on his tongue. Over the years, Roy had honed flattery to an art form. The habit was now so ingrained that even he had trouble sifting sincerity from the chaff of meaningless praise.

“Smooth talking,” Grumman sighed. “A charming enough trait for an officer, but unbecoming for a general. Wouldn’t you say?”

Roy clenched his pants, wrinkling the fabric. He averted his eyes.

Grumman slowly sat down, alleviating the pressure on his joints. “It’s just the two of us now, so let’s be frank with each other. You were still a greenhorn general in the last war; but with the experience you’ve gained, this one could be your chance.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t tell me the thought didn’t cross your mind. We both know war can make or break a military career. North City HQ may be Vogel’s territory for now, but they’re all hungry for glory. War heroes win popular support, and that support wins power. If you intend to play this game seriously, you’ll need your wits about you. Your best people too.”

Roy fought down the ache in his chest, and reconciled himself to the inevitable. He’d known this was coming long before he’d entered the room. “I’ll brief my men.”

He moved to stand, but hesitated when Grumman remained seated. The Fuhrer offered no affirmation, but instead pulled a thin manila envelope from his jacket.

“Your best people, Roy,” he said, sliding it across the table. “All of them.”

Cautiously, Roy lifted the envelope and unwound the twine. He pulled the top sheet up to skim its contents, but his breath hitched at a familiar headshot photo.

“Sir, I –”

Grumman slowly stood, his back turned. He glanced over his shoulder, but the fluorescent light reflected off his glasses, obscuring his eyes. Roy bit back the words building in his throat. He could refuse, but the unsavory task would just fall to someone else…someone worse. His grip tightened.

_It’s better if it comes from me_ , he told himself. Really, he hoped it was true.

“I’ll place the calls, sir.”

* * *

Hawkeye saluted when he returned to his office. Havoc, Breda, and Fuery began to stand, but Roy shook his head and motioned for them to stay seated.

Fuery removed his headset. “Sir, we’ve been trying to reach Captain Falman, but – ”

“Their phone lines are cut,” Roy finished. “The Drachmans took Fort Briggs. We’re officially at war.”

Breda crossed his arms, a troubled expression darkening across his broad face. Roy could almost see the gears spinning inside his brilliant mind.

With a shaky hand, Havoc put out his cigarette and squeezed Fuery’s shoulder. The communications specialist froze, breath hitching as his eyes grew wide. Images of gunfire and filthy trenches in a rain-soaked field no doubt flashed through his mind.

Hawkeye remained a picture of cool headed rationality, but Roy sensed the storm of painful memory whirling just behind her calm veneer. Mechanically, she tucked a lock behind her ear, and tried again a few seconds later only to find the hair already in place. He recognized the tic.

“When do we head out?” she asked.

“Tomorrow. North City HQ has yet to determine the enemy’s size or precise locations, so we must assume the worst. Our top priority is reclaiming the fortress. With Fort Briggs down, our northern border is wide open.”

It was a sobering fact. The Briggs Mountains formed a natural and nearly unscalable barrier between the two countries, but there was a crack in the armor. Towards the middle of the range lay a small pass where the mountains sloped into an open valley. When Amestrian forces first annexed the northern region a century before, they’d erected Fort Briggs across the pass, shutting off Drachman access to the fertile plains below.

Havoc silently mourned the inevitable cancellation of his Friday night date, but couldn’t bring himself to voice the complaint. He rubbed soothing circles over Fuery’s back while his friend simply closed his eyes and nodded. The initial shock was wearing off and giving way to grim acceptance.

“Go home, pack up, and rest well tonight,” Roy told them. “We meet at Platform Two at 0300 hours.”

Quietly, the soldiers slipped on their coats and gathered their belongings. They took a few extra minutes to examine their work stations, retrieving notable personal items.

Roy ran a hand through his hair, fingers clenched around the strands. Everyone here had chosen to enlist and to rejoin his team. He reminded himself over and over, but knowing this on an intellectual level did nothing to assuage his guilt.

After the others left, Hawkeye buttoned up her coat, stopping when she noticed Roy staring at the telephone. “Coming, sir?”

“You go ahead, Captain. There’s something I have to do first.”

She hesitated, but when no explanation came, she wrapped a white scarf around her neck and reached for her satchel. No words were needed between them. Every time danger reared its head, Hawkeye would fix him with her determined stare as if to say ‘I trust you’ and that was enough.

Roy studied the telephone on his desk. With Fort Briggs shut off from all communication, no one could call to confirm whether the tunnel from the nationwide transmutation circle was still intact. Would a cave-in or intersecting tunnel even disable it? Did the Drachmans realize the power to incapacitate the entire nation lay at their fingertips? Was the counter-circle still in place? Roy wasn’t sure what it even looked like.

When the Fuhrer and his generals had debated these questions, they’d reached a harrowing conclusion: none of them really knew.

He cleared his throat. “Operator? Patch me through to Resembool. Yes, it’s a civilian line. Rockbell Automail, please.”

Hawkeye gripped her satchel strap, her knuckles turning white. She staggered into the hall without a second glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: references to past violence and death
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! As always, I love hearing your thoughts and feedback.


	4. Strangers on a Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed and Winry run into an unexpected obstacle on their journey to Central.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warnings for this chapter, other than some minor violence.

_Central City, Amestris – November 25th, 1921_

Alex Louis Armstrong cupped his hands and warmed them with a hot breath. At dawn, the Central City train station was nearly deserted. Only a few droopy-eyed people dozed on the benches awaiting the overnight train from East City. Alex checked his watch, comparing it to the slip of paper in his hand. Almost an hour too early.

Yesterday afternoon, Central HQ was abuzz with talk of a war in the north and the many units already en route to North City. Alex wondered if his own unit would be deployed, but the likelihood was low. The battlefield was now Fort Briggs: the desolate domain of his oldest sister, Olivier Mira Armstrong. The familial tie and Alex’s softhearted nature made him the last soldier any commander would choose for battle. In Ishval, his mercy had almost warranted a court-martial. Thirteen years later, he’d never ascended beyond a major’s rank. To Alex, it was almost a point of pride.

Now he wasn’t so sure. Over time, his friends had risen through the ranks, and – while his heart swelled with joy at their achievements – Alex did not covet their positions. Power came with great responsibility, and that responsibility affected fifty million lives. Alex had realized early on that his shoulders, no matter how broad, just weren’t made to carry that weight. He felt safe as a major, assured that whatever challenges arose would be unambiguous enough for his moral compass to navigate.

Yet with war on the horizon, Alex’s confidence began to crumble. While shielding his tender heart from tough decisions, the need for someone to decide had never gone away. This time, the task didn’t fall to a corrupt and malicious government, but to beloved comrades whose stars had risen without him. All Alex could offer them now was his support, adding his modest strength to the many bolsters they would need to bear the weight of governance.

When Brigadier General Mustang asked for a favor, Alex had accepted without question. Mustang was a good man and Alex felt honored to call him a friend. A favor, no matter how small, was the least he could do. But his heart had sank when Mustang handed him the letter and relayed the orders.

_“Surely, this is a mistake, sir?”_

_Mustang shook his head, clenching the rucksack atop his desk. “I’m afraid not, Major. These orders come from above. Fullmetal’s train arrives at 0800 hours. You’re to give him this and escort Miss Rockbell to the Hotel Kunstkammer. Her grandmother made a reservation.”_

_Alex’s mustache drooped, his sparkles dimming. “Have you even talked to him about – ”_

_“He wasn’t there when I called. By the time I spoke with Mrs. Rockbell, both Fullmetal and his mechanic had already left Resembool on unrelated business. Now be honest. Can I trust you to do this?”_

What could Alex have said but ‘yes’? Still, his chest ached. When they stepped off that train, Edward and Miss Rockbell would be delighted to see him. Well, Edward might pretend otherwise, but Alex knew he secretly enjoyed their manly embraces. He’d squirm and swear, but that bright grin would spread from ear to ear, making his true feelings clear. Alas, those happy smiles would soon fade to hurt, betrayal, and finally acceptance.

Even as a young teen, a strong sense of responsibility had guided Edward’s actions. Alex imagined time had only enhanced this characteristic. No matter the pride he felt, a part of him mourned for the little boy Edward hardly had the chance to be. The military had been no place for a child, but the adults had done their best to preserve his innocence. Sometimes they failed, but at least they tried. Yet with Edward now a grown man, no friends could shield him from the full brunt of his patriotic duty.

Alex pulled the letter from his pocket, hoping that somehow he misread it the first ten times.

_Provost Marshal’s Office_

_Central City Headquarters_

_To: Edward Elric, Resembool_

_Sir,_

_You are hereby notified that you were, on the 24th day of November, 1921, legally drafted in the service of Amestris for three years, in accordance with the provisions of Executive Order Number 7092. You will accordingly report on November 28th, 1921 to North City Headquarters, or be deemed a deserter, and be subject to the penalty prescribed therefore by the Rules and Articles of War._

_J. Landon Haynes_

_Provost Marshal_

_Central District_

No, the words hadn’t changed. They were every bit as damning and unjust as Alex remembered. Edward would board the next train to North City and it was Alex’s job to put him on it. Fumbling through tears and unexpected goodbyes, Miss Rockbell would fight in Edward’s embrace as he awkwardly tried to comfort her. Then as the train pulled into the station, they would realize so many unsaid words with no time left to share them.

Edward would board that train, forcing himself not to turn around lest they see the pain in his tawny eyes. Miss Rockbell would chase that shrill whistle as it disappeared behind the horizon, collapsing with a heart-wrenching sob. In that moment, Alex would sob with her, knowing he had sent a man half his age into a war zone beyond his reach and beyond his help. All because he didn’t have the stomach for the job.

Alex returned the ominous paper to his pocket, the whistle of an incoming train interrupting his reverie. Sleepy men and women disembarked, adjusting scarves, hats, and mittens at the biting air. Every so often, excited children came bounding up behind their parents, arms stiffly bouncing in their puffy winter coats. Among them, a blond boy no older than five slipped on a patch of ice and fell flat on his back.

Alex stepped forward, thinking the boy might need a hand up or a tissue, but the tears never came. Instead, the child seemed momentarily stunned. He rubbed his backside, laughed, and ran after his parents. Alex couldn’t help but smile at the resilience of children.

As families and friends reunited, the crowd gradually dispersed. The disembarking passengers slowed to a trickle, but there was still no sign of Edward or Miss Rockbell. Had he missed them? Surely not. Edward might be – how should he put it? – easy to lose in a crowd, but Alex would know those fiery eyes and that bright blond hair in a heartbeat. If nothing else, Miss Rockbell would have spotted Alex’s glorious physique. For a few brief moments, they might have been happy to see him.

“Excuse me,” he asked a handler unloading boxes from the cargo hold. “I’m looking for two people who were supposed to arrive on this train.”

“Hey, Boss!” The young man straightened his flat cap, calling towards the passenger car. “Big guy here is looking for some no-shows. Got a sec?”

A portly man with red cheeks popped out to scrutinize Alex, eyes crinkling as he grinned. “Well, he can only mean you. Now, who’s it you’re looking for?”

Alex politely shook his hand. “Mr. Edward Elric and Miss Winry Rockbell of Resembool.”

“Hmm, let’s see,” the man said, fumbling for a pair of reading glasses as he scanned the ledger. “Ah. Found your fellow right here. Two tickets booked by an E. Elric. I’m afraid they never boarded the train in East City.”

Alex’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach.

* * *

_Resembool, Amestris — November 24th, 1921_

“Pack enough bricks?” Ed grumbled, dragging the bulky luggage up to the Resembool train platform. It scraped and thudded on every step.

Winry gave him an unimpressed stare. They both knew he could carry it properly. With all the work he did around the farm and the automail shop, his right arm had quickly rebuilt its atrophied muscle. Sometimes she swore he just liked to be dramatic.

“Oh, stop whining. That’s _your_ spare leg, so don’t blame me for making you haul it around. That’s what you get for trashing my last masterpiece.”

Ed rolled his eyes, but Winry didn’t miss his tiny smirk as she lifted the other end. Ed had enjoyed the lightweight feel of his old northern automail, but the tungsten alloy had proven too brittle for long term use. Nowadays, she kept him on the familiar steel of his original prosthesis. Rebuilding broken automail was all fine and dandy when a military salary paid the bill; but with his retirement fund now added to the family pot, Ed’s patient status had promptly changed from cash cow to liability. Winry could only hope that lugging around his own spare would teach him a little restraint.

They carried the bag to a wooden bench and sat in the chilly autumn air. Winry fluffed her scarf, burrowing her ears into its soft fibers. Even a couple hours after the unexpected phone call, the news didn’t feel real.

She had been to Central plenty of times and had met some of the men and women now in power. Yet she had always been there as Ed’s mechanic, the brothers’ childhood friend, or in recent years ‘the girlfriend’. This time, she’d been summoned on her own merit – not as a sidekick of sorts, but as a full and equal partner. Once he saw their design, Fuhrer Grumman wouldn’t know what hit him.

Suddenly, Ed draped his arm over her shoulder, his fingers lightly playing with her earrings. Popping his coat collar with a dramatic yawn, he slouched on the hard bench.

“Gotta conserve body heat,” he said, stomach growling miserably. Winry mischievously nuzzled his neck. “Gah, stop it! Your nose is freezing!”

“But it’s losing heat, Ed! What if I get frostbite and it falls right off?”

Winry swatted Ed’s hands away and rubbed her nose relentlessly around his jawline and under his ear, chuckling at his undignified yelps. A bright red flush crept over his cheeks. Finally, he pinned her hands, tugging up her scarf so it covered everything from her neck to her eyebrows.

“I know a good automail mechanic,” he huffed.

The thick fabric muffled her snickers.

Soon a sharp whistle cut through the air. The train chugged up to the platform with squealing brakes, quietly rumbling as a few passengers disembarked and unloaded crates from the cargo hold. Winry waved to the familiar faces, earning some smiles and cheerful nods in return.

She slung her duffel bag over her shoulder and dusted off her pants. Ed stood with the automail case strapped across his back, one hand gripping his briefcase. He faced the train with a dazed expression, his shoulder muscles tensed beneath the heavy coat. Winry slipped her hand around his twitching fingers and squeezed. He startled at the touch, but closed his eyes and squeezed back, his mouth set in a firm line.

“We’ve got this,” she smiled up at him. “No one thinks any less of you without the alchemy, Ed.”

Ed cracked open a skeptical eye. “I never said they did.”

_No,_ she thought. _But you were damn well thinking it._

For as long as Winry had known him, Ed’s life had revolved around alchemy. It coursed through his veins, nourishing his heart and mind – as vital to his existence as the air in his lungs. He was the Fullmetal Alchemist, Hero of the People, and though he’d carried that title for nearly half his life, even the simplest transmutation now lay beyond his reach.

He hated Central and – no matter what he claimed – Winry understood the true reason. It wasn’t the crowds or the noise, the smoggy air or even the faint whiff of sewage on especially wet days. It was their friends. The old team was always happy to see them, always welcoming them with hugs, thumps on the back, or even the occasional headlock and hair ruffle for Ed. They’d go out for drinks and reminisce about the good old days.

But eventually someone would spill a drink or shatter a glass and – tipsy from the alcohol - they’d forget. ‘Hey, kid. Think you can transmute the beer off my shirt before my date?’ Or, ‘Ah shit. The barkeep’s gonna make me pay for that. How about a quick fix before he notices?’ And just like that, the whole room would fall silent. The group would disperse with awkward goodbyes and the smiles would fade to pity.

Ed never mentioned it, only accepted the handshakes and shoulder pats. They’d known the alchemist, but never the boy. Certainly never the man he’d become. They didn’t know the first thing about Edward Elric and yet they presumed to feel sorry for him. Poor Fullmetal, packed off to shovel sheep shit in backwater Resembool, exiled forever from the only thing he was ever really good at. Call it retirement because admitting to the public that their hero alchemist couldn’t transmute his way out of a paper bag anymore was just too damn depressing.

It made Winry want to scream.

As the train rumbled behind her, she grabbed her fiancé by the arms and spun him around so they stood face to face. He started to say something, but she cut him off, poking a finger to his chest.

“Look at me, Ed. You’re not the Fullmetal Alchemist anymore. You’re Edward-Fucking-Elric, and you’re one hell of an engi– ”

“Not the ‘E’ word.”

“Fine!” she groaned, casting an exasperated look to the stars. “Applied science specialist! I’ll even make you some business cards that say ‘Edward Elric, Professional A.S.S.’ if you like that better, but the point is – ”

“Uh, that’s nice but…” his eyes cut nervously to the train.

“ – those people in Central don’t know you like I do, and if they think – ”

“Winry!” he snapped right as a shrill whistle pierced through the air.

Her jaw dropped in horror as the wheels started to turn. “Shit!”

Together they ran as fast as their legs would carry them. Just as the train picked up speed, Winry held her breath and leapt from the platform. For a split second, she flew through the air, sighing with relief when her boots clanged against the brake van and her hands clenched the railing.

Ed leapt after her, but the luggage threw him off balance. She cringed as he face-planted into the tracks. Recovering quickly, he broke into a frenzied sprint. Winry bit her lip and extended her hand, ready to pull him up the second he came within reach.

_Come on, Ed. Come on, come on… Gotcha!_

She grabbed his arm, planted her feet, and pulled as hard as she could. With a heavy thud, she landed on her back, pinned between a familiar pair of mismatched legs. The tattered briefcase lay by her head. Winry took in Ed’s half-lidded gaze, his flushed face, and mussed up bangs. His mouth hung slightly open, chest heaving steadily up and down. Her heart pounded at the sight, and she felt her cheeks redden.

“Next time,” he breathed deeply, slumping on top of her. “You carry the stupid automail.”

The bag thudded onto the metal platform, and Ed rolled to the side with a miserable groan.

* * *

Winry slouched and stretched her legs. Somehow, her half-eaten club sandwich had traveled across the table, where Ed now sat mindlessly dissecting the soggy remains. While one hand probed for leftover meat or cheese, the other held a nubby pencil, occasionally scratching at the papers beneath it.

She patted her belly, peering over the teacups and the briefcase resting unlatched between them. Ed had insisted on dragging the poor beat-up thing from the overhead rack so he could go over their project notes once again. It had to be the fourth or fifth time that evening, but Winry didn’t push the subject. She recognized the meditative effect of solving a good puzzle and the hint of a smile gracing Ed’s lips as he recalculated the fuel ratio. He gleaned the same satisfaction from balancing chemical equations as Winry did from taking apart and reassembling her favorite automail pieces.

“Nerd,” she muttered, amused when his cowlick poked up in response.

Ed grunted around a scrap of bacon hanging from his mouth, but gave no further acknowledgement. Bored with the lack of conversation, Winry leaned her head against the wall. The southern line from East City was one of the least frequented train routes in Amestris, but she hadn’t expected the dining car to feel quite this vacant on a Thursday night.

Two elderly women shared a table in the corner, knitting in companionable silence with a cornflower patterned teapot set between them. A few tables down, a very fat man slumped in his seat, bowler hat pulled over his eyes to rest just above his pudgy nose. He breathed slowly and rhythmically through his open mouth, clearly fast asleep. The only other occupants were a pair of soldiers. From behind, Winry easily recognized the blue uniforms with white trim and golden shoulder coils. The men sat near the door, right next to a coat hook holding up their heavy black overcoats.

Well, that was unusual.

After a short summer, the seasons had quickly shifted. Resembool had seen its first frost nearly a month early. Still, in this part of the country, a sturdy sweater or jacket was enough to keep sufficiently warm. Winry noticed the padded wool and the fur around each collar. She’d only ever seen such coats at Fort Briggs, but what could possibly bring soldiers from Amestris’s northernmost outpost this far south?

Just outside, the lights of yet another mountain village faded into the darkness, and Winry’s eyelids began to droop. Her fingers wrapped around the porcelain teacup, the leaves of her cooled orange pekoe now sunk to the bottom. She made a face at the bitter liquid, but drained the cup regardless. Their train would arrive at East City within the hour, and Winry stubbornly refused to sleep until they changed lines for Central.

The train lurched as a deafening screech reverberated through the cabin.

The momentum threw Winry from her seat, bumping her into the table and knocking over the teapot. Cold tea sloshed over the tablecloth and briefcase, sprinkling the scattered project notes and disintegrating Ed’s latest calculations.

“Stupid shitty overpriced bathwater,” he grumbled, searching for something to mop up the sticky mess.

Winry pulled the tablecloth, but it was too thoroughly soaked. Ed balled up the corner of his coat, furiously dabbing at the dampened papers. Winry started to help, but froze when she heard footsteps approaching from behind.

“Ed,” she whispered.

“Just a sec, Winry. I’ve almost got the turbine specs dried out.”

“ _Ed!_ ”

“Dammit, woman! I said wait a —”

Ed closed the briefcase and turned to argue. Instead, he found himself nearly nose-to…chest with a mountain of a man in military uniform. The overcoat lay slung over his shoulder, held in place by a meaty hand. Up close, the fellow reeked of stale sweat and something oddly metallic. A large stain near his collarbone drew Winry’s eye, and she immediately recognized the source of the strange scent. A sidelong glance from Ed told her he’d noticed it too.

Blood. Lots of it.

This man must have suffered a severe injury. Only a major artery would produce enough blood to soak through all the layers of a standard Fort Briggs uniform. Winry’s mind drudged up memories of anatomical diagrams in her parents’ medical books. It had to be a penetrated left subclavian, but how could he have survived a wound like that?

Her gaze traveled down the man’s arm, stopping at the wrist. Nearly three inches of hairy skin lay between the hand and the frayed sleeve. Alarmed, Winry took a closer look at his torso, noticing strained shirt buttons and a stripe of pale skin above the waistline of his pants. It wasn’t just the jacket; the entire uniform was too small.

Winry twitched as her thoughts turned to the cast iron monkey wrench stashed in her duffel bag. From the corner of her eye, she saw it resting on the bench behind her, just an arm’s length away.

Ed’s hand found her restless fingers, squeezing as he stepped between her and the unsettling intruder. She wasn’t sure if the sweatiness came from her own palm or his, but her grip tightened regardless. With muscles tensed and knees slightly bent, Ed reminded her of a compressed torsion spring ready to snap back with proportional force if released. His sharp eyes roved over the stranger’s uniform, making note of the insignia.

“How can I help you, Sergeant?”

“Papers,” the man demanded in a strangely lilted voice. Something rattled as he spoke, and his lips parted to reveal licorice-stained teeth.

Ed wrinkled his nose at the rotten sweet breath, but didn’t budge. Behind her fiancé’s back, Winry snaked her hand towards the darkly gleaming wrench. The soldier pouted, sucking on the hard candy as he scratched at his buzz-cut hair.

Sensing hesitation, his lanky companion stepped into view, opening his overcoat just enough to reveal the polished wooden stock of a bolt-action rifle. Though he appeared quite young, his reddened eyes and stubble suggested a rough few days. He scowled in their general direction.

Slowly, Ed released Winry’s hand and held his own up in a placating gesture. With deliberate non-threatening movement, he reached into the pocket of his soggy overcoat.

“Hold on,” he mumbled as he fished around, moving from pocket to pocket and scratching his head in apparent absent-mindedness. “I’ve got them around here somewhere.”

Winry watched him carefully, knowing good and well that she carried the IDs and travel documents for both of them.

Aside from alchemy, Ed’s biggest natural talent lay in pushing people’s buttons. As a kid, he’d reveled in being both loud and obnoxious. Growing up had fixed one part of that equation, but unfortunately it was only the reveling. When he truly put his mind to it, Ed could be more irritating than ever before. The only difference was that now he’d mastered the art of making it seem unintentional.

Winry suspected this wasn’t his first time playing the scatterbrain. The behavior reminded her of his father, but she wisely kept that thought to herself. Iron warmed in her hand as she adjusted the jaws on her favorite tool to their fully open position.

“Oh, found them!” Ed grinned.

The smelly man raised an eyebrow at the cheerful tone, and shared an unimpressed look with his companion. The gunman approached, impatiently leaning in to observe the source of the holdup. In a split second, Ed produced a tiny bottle of automail formula water displacement spray and promptly discharged it into the nosy fellow’s face.

With an indignant wail, the gunman furiously rubbed his eyes, unintentionally spreading the slick oily goo. The rifle slipped from his hands, dangling precariously from his elbow by its strap. He tottered backwards, tripping on an overturned snack cart, and crashed into a stack of dirty plates.

On cue, Winry spun her arm into a backhand swing, gaining momentum as her wrench smacked the smelly man’s temple. He yelped, blinking blood from his beady eyes. With an exasperated groan, he grabbed for her hair, but Ed stunned him with a briefcase whack to the face. Black saliva clung to his chin as he slammed into the opposite bench, slumping with a pitiful whine.

Meanwhile, the gunman scrambled to his feet, radiating sheer rage as he tugged a fork from his stringy hair. Once loose, he flung the utensil across the cabin, impaling the bowler still sitting atop the fat passenger’s head. The man paled as he scrambled for cover, joining the old ladies defensively lobbing teaware from a couple tables away.

The gunman lifted his rifle, but Ed quickly closed the gap. Grabbing the gun with both hands, he pushed it into his opponent’s face. The man staggered backwards, yelping as Ed slammed his automail foot onto his toes.

Winry winced at the crunch of broken bone. The gunman spat some words she didn’t recognize, but assumed to be pure profanity. With their assailants distracted, she whacked her wrench into the window, raining the table, benches, and floor with shards of broken glass. Quickly, she knocked more jagged edges from the casing.

“Ed, stop trying to get in the last hit and c’mon!”

Winry shoved one leg after another through the narrow opening and reached to pull him through. The cold wind whipped at her back, freezing rain spraying her face as the smell of burning coal filled her sinuses. Her boot slipped, and Winry struggled to find a new foothold as the shrill whistle echoed in her ears.

With a final backwards glance, Ed snapped the tablecloth at their attackers, dousing them in a cloud of shattered glass and irritating particles. He climbed atop the table, shoving the briefcase into Winry’s waiting hand.

“REALLY?!” she yelled.

Tossing the briefcase behind her, Winry vowed to have a firm discussion about priorities later. She held onto Ed’s wrists, pulling with all her might. His coat caught on the broken glass, ripping as he sailed through the window. They tumbled gracelessly down the embankment, landing in a tangled heap several meters from the tracks.

Winry untwisted her arm and groaned at the automail knee digging into her ribs. Miserably, she shoved Ed off her chest, spitting out the wad of blond ponytail that somehow ended up in her mouth. It tasted vaguely floral, and she made a mental note to chew him out for stealing her shampoo. If only that were her biggest concern right now.

Ed wobbled upright, brushing the grass and leaves from his disheveled hair. He staggered almost drunkenly and patted his clothes in apparent confusion. Winry took a deep breath to stop her head from spinning.

And froze at the sound of a cocking gun.

She stared down the barrel of a rifle pointed right between her eyes. In her periphery, she saw another rifle nestled between Ed’s shoulder blades. He raised both hands while a woman patted him down and searched his pockets. Headlights from an unmarked cargo van illuminated her freckled face and carrot-red hair.

The cold metal tapped Winry’s forehead, prompting her to show her own hands. Soon, the woman finished with Ed and turned her attention to Winry. She found the wallet with their IDs and travel papers, but passed the documents to her accomplice without a cursory glance.

“Mr. Elric, Miss Rockbell, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, grinning as he slowly flipped through the wallet. “You’ll forgive the intrusion, yes? Mother Drachma requests an audience.”

Winry nervously looked to the train chugging further and further away into the night. Soon she spied a pair of dark figures approaching from the tracks. The skinny one limped, and the wind carried the faint sound of foreign swear words. This was bad. Very bad.

Another poke from the rifles brought Ed and Winry to their feet. The Drachmans unlocked the cargo van doors, revealing an unlit interior with a suspiciously crusty blanket lining the floor.

“Get in.” The woman’s tone left no room for argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, folks! As always, I’d love to hear what you think.
> 
> This is the first chapter I wrote, so it’s a bit special to me. Back then, I thought this fic would wind up at 10 chapters, tops. Spoiler alert: it snowballed.
> 
> Anyway, huge props as always to ProfessorPalmarosa for being the world’s most patient beta-reader!


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